Candy Cane Kisses - A Christmas Collection

Elf

by shaunallan

Christmas was coming. The goose was getting happily fat as, in contrast to the poem, most people ate turkey. The shops were overflowing with decorations and the usual short term mall outlets had changed from selling candles to American candy to everything-for-a-pound tinsel, baubles and plastic stick on the window Santa faces.

Excitement was building like a geyser's pressure, ready to explode on that one day and then be fizzled out by the next. Many would try to cling on to the festive spirit for weeks after whilst others removed all sign by the time evening on Boxing Day came.

And, at the North Pole, the blood flowed on the snow as if Santa's suit had been casually discarded while he took a well earned, post delivery bath.

But he hadn't had that bath. Not yet. Not for at least two weeks. Two weeks of preparation. Two weeks of frantic hard work.

Two weeks of murder. Of death. Of screams that lasted long into the night, devoid of the need to take a ragged breath, tortured and relentless.

It started out as an accident. More often than one might think, such things do. A slip or a push. A dropped object. Failed brakes. Not all death is either natural or planned. So it was here. Besides, Elves were inherently nice, in the main. They had been for centuries, ever since being employed by the father of all Christmases. Their dark past was long forgotten. Forever buried.

Everyone thought so. Or didn't think so. It was not even a legend anymore. There were no bedtime stories or threats that, if you didn't go straight to sleep, the Elves would get you. They wouldn't, of course. They preferred their prey to be sleeping. They could attune their heartbeats to the slumbering form, an attribute that gave them fair warning if the stolen child was about to wake.

But that was so long before, Time had discarded that part of history like so much torn off wrapping paper.

Their employment had been a lifeline. The Elves were in danger of dissolving into savage monsters whose only thoughts were of the hunt. The capture. The bloodletting and the feast. Turning them into the builders of dreams had given them hope. It had given them another path. It had given Santa time to relax and to find and woo a wife.

Cassiopeia. Betrothed of Santa. True blood Elf and descendent of Cassius, the four hundred and fifteenth Lord of the Elven people. Cassius, though it was no longer recalled, had been the one to finalise the deal. It was his ministrations that saved his race. He was legend, though the reasons for his adoration were lost. She was the embodiment of everything her great-grandfather's great-grandfather's great... Cassiopeia was the perfect wife. The perfect mother of Christmas.

Until...

"You know you still love me," Alix whispered.

Walking back to the house she shared with her husband, a building that appeared small and homely on the outside but was, in fact, vast and technologically advanced once you entered, Cassiopeia had been smiling. Christmas was over. It had been another success, though not without its dramas. Still, the hiccups kept things interesting and she enjoyed the rush of adrenaline such things injected into her. She was looking forward to settling down with her husband and planning the busy and challenging new year.

They had not been married long, though their courtship had been extended. Santa couldn't just take anyone for a wife. He was the White Father. But, traditional and stature aside, he had fallen deeply in love with the Elf. And she with him.

This had been their first Christmas since their wedding and he had found her enthusiasm and ingenuity invaluable. Every year, tastes changed for the children of the world, and the North Pole had to keep abreast. Cassiopeia had not only ensured they were up to date, but had planted the seeds of ideas that would keep them ahead of the game for some years to come.